


change no object or creature

by harcourt



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Alternate Universe - Young Wizards, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Gen, and destruction, canon conflation, longfic_bingo, no Clint/Kate, some Hawkguy elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Young Wizards AU.</i>
</p><p>Tony is just thrilled that his appliances have started talking to him, and Clint might be the most jaded wizard ever.</p><p>Or, Clint and Tony are offered the Oath years apart from each other, and the Avengers are still a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. two prologues

**Author's Note:**

> I'm _so_ sorry to do this. I really tried not to, but it seems like I have to get it out of my system before I can go back to other WIPs. I can't brain the various loose ends of tigerfic while I'm distracted by this, so maybe don't consider this a WIP, but just clearing the pipes.
> 
> Tags, pairings to update as things progress.
> 
> WIP progress reports sporadically posted to my Dreamwidth, also as harcourt.
> 
> eta--I am now also using this for [long fic bingo](http://longfic-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), since I got _X-over--book_. There are no coincidences.

Clint is offered the Oath when he's nine years old. He's not very good at reading, so the manual comes to him as a picture book, thick like a collection of fairytales and nicely bound. 

It's the binding that attracts him--the book is too nice to be tossed in with the beaten and dog-eared old textbooks which is what's usually on offer when they get secondhand books--school library rejects, usually. This one is a hardcover, and dressed up to look old and important, so Clint isn't sure whether he's elated or disappointed that when he opens it, it appears to be a kid's book. 

On the one hand, that's not cool and mysterious at all, but on the other it isn't something boring and unintelligible either, which is what nice books usually end up being--outdated and for grown ups and full of text from cover to cover. 

But it's still a nice book, and full of drawings, and Clint's not likely to get a pick of the robot or space books anymore, not with the strongman's sons elbows deep in the pile, so he tucks the fairytale tome under his arm and looks around for Barney, to see if he's ready to go. 

So no one can take if off him even if fairytales are kind of a baby book. Maybe a girl book. 

Barney says, "God, you're such a loser," but it's fond and Clint falls into the safety of his shadow, and follows him around until he gets fed up with tripping over Clint and declares there's nothing there but crap. 

Later, Clint shoves the book away with his things and forgets it in between chores and practice and work and watching the townie kids, and watching Barney watch the townie kids while he strings lights and _they_ walk the slowly lighting-up carnival hand-in-hand.

It's not until their packing up is interrupted by rain and Clint's lying on his belly inside one of the magician's trick boxes-- _Now you see her, now you don't!_ \--armed with a flashlight, that he finally opens the book, flipping through it and it's detailed drawings--circles and cars and whales and strange words, phonetically sounded out underneath. 

For a baby fairytale book it's pretty weird, Clint thinks, thumping a foot against the painted wood in absent pleasure. The sound he makes is covered by thunder, which is good, because he's likely to get in trouble if he's found; for running down the flashlight's batteries and for hiding from work, and for playing with and in the magician's things again.

He leafs back to the front of the book, to start looking at the pictures in order, and finds one page at the front with no drawings at all. Just tidy, dark text. Large enough letters that it's clearly a part of the book and not an introduction or study questions or anything like that, and it's simple and short enough that even Clint's shaky reading skills can manage it.

 _In Life's name, and for Life's sake_ , it says.

\-----

Tony isn't offered the Oath until after he's forty. Until after the Nine Rings and Stane and being nearly poisoned by the very technology that was supposed to be keeping him alive. After he's Iron Man.

He acquires the manual by accident when he's downloading some light reading of the _That's none of your business, Stark_ variety, when the file appears in with the mess of shady SHIELD dealings and personnel files and pictures of Coulson from his college fraternity days.

"The shit is this?" Tony asks JARVIS, but JARVIS probably considers that insufficient parameters for a query, because he doesn't respond. Or maybe he's finally grokked the concept of rhetorical questions. 

This wasn't one. Tony really honestly wants to know, because scrolling down gets him dire warnings, and not of the _Eyes Only_ variety, or even of the _The FBI cares a lot if you copy this movie_ variety either. Instead it tells him to stop right the hell now unless he's willing to undergo an ordeal--been there, done that!--and is very, very, _very_ certain that this is in fact what he wants to do because otherwise, he'll just be killing the universe a little faster by making it waste energy on him.

"I don't even know what this thing is and already it sounds like my father," he grumbles at JARVIS, but further along the crazy file also promises him a good look at the cogs and gears and inner workings of the universe, and even if it's probably some extra stupid SHIELD lackey mis-uploading their kid's entertainment or something, it catches Tony's interest.

Even MIT hadn't been able to promise a behind-the-scenes sneak-a-peek at creation, but the thing's optimism is entertaining. Some kid is either in a very promising class or being taken for a ride.

Tony gets up to pour himself a scotch and comes back, frowning as he scrolls up and down. The language of the file isn't kid language. It's not quite legalese, and not quite textbook technical, but it's straight-forward, clearly presented information, in an undecorated text file. Huh.

It's taking itself very seriously, this spot of crazy.

Tony rolls his eyes and keeps going. _I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life_ , the last part says, which is fair enough, if kind of vague on the technicalities. Just the way Tony likes his promises. There are a lot of thing he'd consider _servicing life_ , that maybe others would categorize differently.

He reads the whole bit out loud to JARVIS. It's a little hippy-dippy, but when he finishes his lab feels very quiet, like even the constant hum of machinery and air filtration has stopped or at least gone muted and distant, and when he tries to scroll down again the screen moves up just a bit and a line of text reads _Install manual?_ With a space for inputting a directory and followed by a button reading _Execute_.

He installs it to his Starkpad.

Two weeks later, cars start talking to him.


	2. do less harm

"Tony fucking _Stark_ ," Clint says, and throws his book--there's really only one that he thinks of as _his_ book. Maybe _the_ book--onto the couch then flops dramatically after it, twisting a little to avoid landing on it and jabbing himself with the corner. It's in surprisingly good shape for having been actively lugged around for the better part of two decades and change, despite having been run over once and dropped in a puddle at least twice.

If nothing else, _that_ would have convinced Clint of it's realness. It's magical realness. Hah.

"Oh god," Kate says, when he repeats the thought out loud, "Don't try to make literature jokes at me. You're not fooling anyone." 

Clint pulls the book out from under himself to consider it. Now that he's an adult, it's pretty obviously a kid's book. A little bit oversize, the cover decorated with the simple stylization of books that were meant to have a dust jacket. He _does_ kind of look like a dumbass carrying it everywhere. 

"You might have to water my plants," he tells Kate, flipping it back open and resting the bottom of the spine on his stomach. 

Kate says, "Right," in a dubious tone, and glances around the apartment, the little shit. "You know," she says, and Clint flips her off before she can get started with her commentary on the dessicated remains in his pots and how, for a wizard, he has the ungreen-est thumb ever.

At least he can keep _dogs_ alive. 

As if on cue, Lucky rests his head on the edge of the couch and rolls his eyes beseechingly. "G'boy," Clint tells him, babytalking to annoy Kate. Lucky huffs dog breath at him. 

"No going," he says, a long canine whine, drawing out the _-oooing_ , and his tail thumps pathetically.

"Don't worry," Clint says, turning back to his book where, two days ago, his name had appeared next to the listing _On Assignment_ and _Assignment Location: Stark Tower, 200 Park Avenue, Manhattan, NY_ , "If anything happens, Kate will feed you and take you on walkies and pick up your poop and stuff."

"I'm not sure I'm supposed to be helping you with _your_ shit," Kate tells him, and, "You're the worst Advisory ever."

"Hah," Clint says, "I'm not advising anyone right now. I'm _on assignment_ ," and glares at his book again. Says, "Could there be _one_ aspect of my life that does not include Tony Stark? He's--" Clint's not even sure how old Tony is, "too old to be recruited," he finishes, a little awkwardly. 

"I was fifteen," Kate says, and Clint gives her a look, because while that _is_ old for a kid to be wizardishly open to believing in bizarre possibilities, he can't quite come up with a snappy remark about it.

It doesn't seem quite right to, either. Considering the reality of those bizarre possibilities.

Instead he says, "Yeah. That's totally the same."

\-----

Tony had thought his coffee machine was recalcitrant _before_ , but now it has opinions on his caffeine consumption and a snippy, self-righteous tone, like an affronted teenager. Or maybe like a nagging, offended mother.

(Fine. Drink yourself to death,) it burbles, (Give yourself an ulcer. See what I care. Every morning I have to watch you stumble around, skipping breakfast and do you know how sour coffee is? On an empty stomach? It's a blessing if you're not drunk while you do it.)

"Shut up," Tony says, and squints at the pot, "Brew faster."

(I'm brewing, I'm brewing,) the coffee machine says, in a tone that would be accompanied by an eye-roll if it were human, (The _thanks_ I get.)

"I appreciate you looking after me," Tony tells it, because the guilt trip is familiar and that sentence, said contritely enough, usually mollifies Pepper enough that she doesn't outright resign on him.

(Aw, don't mention it,) the coffee machine says, changing it's tone and sounding bashful. It burbles a little faster.

\-----

"Congratulations," Clint says, barging into the tower with that apparently SHIELD-encouraged lack of respect for private property. "On not getting killed." He looks extra pissy today, and Tony's not sure what it's about but then Clint continues, "Or so I assume. Unless you're not done and I just got sucked into someone else's Ordeal and you're about to get us both into some kind of horrible situation." He says it with an implied _wouldn't be surprised_ , and waits for Tony to catch up.

"Oh," Tony says. " _Oh_."

"Yeah, _oh_. I had a nice semi-retirement going. Thanks _a lot_."

It's an act. Probably. Clint's retirement wouldn't have been _semi_ if he was, as the manual put it 'an unwilling spirit', and Tony's always known that Barton was full of shit, but this is living proof.

"How are you semi-retired?" Tony says, "I _just_ got roped in. Right before that tesseract business. You might remember it. Or maybe not." He's not really all that clear on what Clint's side of things was like, or what memories he's retained. 

Clint gives him a poisonous look. "That's what you get for building your towering monument to yourself practically on top of a world gate," he says, but his tone is a lot milder than his expression, and even that clears into weariness after a second, then into some kind of exasperated humor before he reaches into his bag to pull a book out and tosses it open onto Tony's table. 

Tony looks down at it just long enough to recognize his name in clear, dark letters and to register the size and style of the book, then back at Clint. "Do we need to get you hooked on phonics, Barton?" he asks.

Clint snorts and looks like he's just barely managing to not make a face. "Fuck you, Stark," he says, "I was _nine_."

 _Nine?_ It must show on his face, because Clint's amused look comes back and he touches the picture-heavy pages of his manual with something that might be fondness and might be nostalgia, before he says, "Don't tell me you didn't know you were old for the offer? Like-- _old_."

"I may be a bit more mature," Tony starts. 

"Old," Clint repeats, interrupting, "The average is around twelve." Then, "It's probably your lack of a grip on reality. I guess it's working to your advantage." His tone clearly says _if you consider it that_.

Tony's manual had said a lot about a wizardly sense of joy and wonder, but Clint's coming off kind of cynical. He tactfully doesn't mention it.

Instead he asks, "So how does your assassinating people and this preserving life business go together?" And okay. Maybe that's not a step up, tact-wise, but Clint just turns his manual around so the pages are right-way around for him and shrugs, looking at Tony's name on the page again like it's poison.

"Figure I break about even," he says, "At least I'm reducing my footprint." And _that_ just brings up all kinds of uncomfortable feelings. Tony tries to tamp them down, and can't quite succeed. His stomach crawls a little uncomfortably.

"I wasn't offered this because I'm an amazing public speaker, was I?" Tony asks, thinking about the notes on persuasive speaking and language aptitude. The description really doesn't fit Clint, who seems to think "and stuff" constitutes informative elaboration.

"Hell if I know," Clint says, "You and Bruce are the ones who are all with the working of the universe and the quarks of the atoms or whatever. I just--"

"Just?"

"Try to keep a few plants alive and businessmen from catapulting themselves into alternate dimensions."

Tony's not sure how plants fit into that, but he offers Clint a salute with his coffee mug anyway. "A worthy pursuit," he says, "especially that second part."

"Eh," Clint says with a shrug, "It's just that the clean-ups kind of a pain."


	3. alive

"So? Are you involved in some kind of Stark death battle?" Kate wants to know, when Clint comes home instead of setting up camp in Tony's beacon of self-importance. 

"Not yet," Clint says, because there's no point in tempting fate by saying _no_. Or at least, no point in tempting it in major ways. "Maybe I should get cactuses," he says, eyeing the pots on his kitchen counter and window sill. The soil in them is dry and cracked. _Go with native conditions_ is the suggestion he usually gets and the native condition when he gets called away is neglect and abandonment.

Lucky's been... _lucky_ so far, since the kids down the hall like him and will walk him and feed him and make sure he has water at the exorbitant rate of a dollar per Kate-unavailable day. No one had the same sympathy for his spider plant or rhododendron or the kitchen herbs from the grow-your-own kit.

The empty pots and dry stalks sticking out of them are too grim to just leave empty. The cost of hearing things talk was that their lives took on a crazy weight. Clint could sort of remember not giving a crap about dead parsley, once.

"You'll just over water them," Kate tells him, still on the cactuses. Not really giving the idea a proper chance. "Just get rid of the damn pots and get. I don't know. Another dog."

Lucky whines in protest and Clint ignores Kate and keeps surveying his kitchen counter. Says, "Something low maintenance and hardy," and pats Lucky, scratching his ears until he pants, "Yahyahyahyah." in support. Or encouragement. Whichever. 

"Okay," Kate says, sitting on his couch watching his laserdiscs and eating food from his fridge and reading a magazine, all at the same time, "I'm going then. Call me if New York is about to be swallowed or something, but I didn't sign up to watch your dog."

New York is pretty much always about to be swallowed by something, but Clint picks bits of dead basil out of a pot and flicks the pieces into the sink. "Hah," he says, "You don't sign up. You get sucked in."

" _I_ signed up," Kate says, tossing her magazine aside as she gets up to grab her things. A few minutes later she kicks her way out of his apartment.

"Call me," Clint yells after her, sticking his head out into the hall "I have an Aveng-- cell phone now."

Even from down the hall he can hear her snort in response. "Are you sure you can handle anything that's not attached to your wall by a cable?"

\-----

Tony, according to his book, is _On Active Status_. The book's become more sophisticated as Clint got older, the illustrations becoming less childish and morphing slowly into technical diagrams and maps, but not quite disappearing. Tony is a detailed little drawing in suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, Stark Tower a page border. 

"I can't tell," Clint tells Lucky, "if I'm supposed to advise him or work with him." At least _Active Status_ means Tony's not about to drag him on some kind of new kid quest of doom. Not that there isn't usually another quest of doom just around the corner anyway.

Lucky barks, "Advise!" but Lucky latches onto random words and repeats them as conversation. He'd be terrible if he was human and at a cocktail party, but as a dog he's the _best_. Clint feeds him a piece of bread from his sandwich.

"Advise? Hah! That know it all," he says, " _You_ try telling him anything," and tosses Lucky another piece of sandwich. Lucky spits out the bit of tomato that snuck in by accident, then stares woefully at it where it lies on the floor and sticks his tongue out repeatedly, like he thinks it's foul. "Everyone's got problems," Clint tells him, around his own mouthful of sandwich. 

Lucky whines. Clint tries to feed him more tomato, to see if he'll do the tongue thing again, but this time Lucky sniffs cautiously and sneezes, "Yuck."

\-----

"I don't know what you're so grouchy about," Tony says the next time Clint comes grumping around, "It's like _everything_ is JARVIS now. I had this conversation with Steve's _motorcycle_. Oh man, you do _not_ want to hear what Cap gets up to on his downtime."

It's Clint's cue to ask what Cap gets up to on his downtime, but he doesn't take it. Tony gives him a couple of seconds to get with the program then shrugs and goes on. 

"Anyway," he says, "What did they give me _you_ for, anyway? Are you like--" it's awkward to finish because Clint clearly sees where he's going with it and glares. "Like my Coulson?" he ends anyway, and grimaces a little so Clint will know that he knows that it's awkward. "Because you've got the buzzkill thing going pretty good."

"I'm not Coulson," Clint says, his voice flat. "And I'm pretty sure They--" Tony can hear the capital, "gave me _you_." 

He means _saddled me with_. Tony can tell by the way Clint doesn't sound like he thinks Tony is a prize. 

"Just--Don't screw with anything, Tony." Clint says it with more than a hint of tired warning. Tony can just _feel_ the wonderment dripping off him.

"Are you about to give me a speech on magical ethics?" he asks, tilting his head curiously. He'd like to hear that from Clint, actually. It would be sort of surreal, and probably filled with things he could bring up again later, when Clint inevitably contradicted himself. "Is it going to be like Bruce's speeches on scientific ethics? By which I mean, hypocritical?"

"No," Clint says, eyeing him, " _You_ made a promise. You fuck it up, it's on you." But then he winces, just a little, and it's pretty obvious that Clint is foreseeing serious, wider-ranging than _on you_ repercussions to his fucking up whatever it is Clint thinks he's going to fuck up.

"You think I'm going to do something stupid," Tony says, "But you know everything I touch has been a rousing success, so I don't know what the hell your problem is."

Clint regards him with a steady, even look. The corner of his mouth twitches, but not into a smile. More like he has a jumpy nerve.

"I don't need a baby sitter," Tony tells him, in case that's what he's worried about, "You should talk to my coffee machine. He--uh. She--"

"It," Clint supplies, rolling his eyes. 

"Well, JARVIS is a he." It just seemed rude to go around _it_ -ing people. Things. Stuff that talks. Tony doesn't explain, but Clint's twitching has turned into an amused smile. It says _you rookie_ all over it. 

"Uh-huh," Clint says, but doubtfully. Like he thinks he knows JARVIS better than Tony. 

"You've been talking to my computer, haven't you?" he asks, "All this time." It's not a comforting thought.

Clint's smile turns into a smooth, obnoxious smirk. He doesn't answer either way. "So," he says, smugly, "Cap's bike?"

\-----

"Happy happy happy happy," Lucky pants as he trots along by Clint's side, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. It's pretty warm out for wearing a fur coat, but Lucky doesn't seem fazed, his tail swinging in time to his narration.

Walks are the best. 

Around the corner and two blocks down is a hole-in-the-wall grocery that puts out a water bowl for dogs. Clint has suspicions about the old lady who runs the place, but he's kept it to himself. Definitely hasn't shared the idea with Kate, who thinks he sees wizards everywhere.

"It's a high wizard density area," Clint tells Lucky, who's busy slobbering water, "What does _she_ know?"

"Density!" Lucky suggests, with a distracted wag, clearly busy with other things, then licks his nose and goes back to "Happy!"

"Happy happy," Clint agrees, swinging the clip end of the lead lazily as Lucky finishes then crosses the sidewalk to sniff at a tree and make offended whuffing noises on the exhale. Like he's insulted by whatever he smells there.

Then he turns and lifts his leg.

"Aw, geez," Clint says, "Sorry, tree."

There's no breeze, but the tree's leaves rustle. (Trees understand,) it says, sounding resigned.

"Us mammals are disgusting," Clint says, even though this tree is a whole lot friendlier than the one by the subway entrance and has never suggested such a thing. It's laughter sounds like bark scraping. Dry.

(Price of living in the city,) it says, as Clint frowns at Lucky's oblivious return to sniffing and then to circling.

"Tell me about it," Clint says, and then, noticing someone coming out of the grocery has stopped to watch him talk to the tree, covers with, "The hell, dog? You think I'm made of plastic bags?"

\-----

"Okay," Tony says, cupping his hand over the phone. Clint is the most unsupportive whatever the hell it is he's supposed to be, mostly just coming over to float uncharitable allusions and give Tony suspicious, warning looks. Clint's going to _love_ this. "I have some questions."

"You?" Clint asks doubtfully, sounding muffled and distracted. Like he's busy with something. There's the sound of clattering. Dishes or something. Domestic Hawkeye is a weird image so Tony tries to avoid processing it too much. "Alright," Clint says, and there's a clang, "Shoot."

"Alright. So. This robot--"

"What did it want?"

"What? Nothing." Tony glances across his work room and drops his voice to a whisper, "I built it last year. Before the whole stuff."

"Stuff? Do you mean Avengers stuff or the other stuff?"

"It's all the same stuff, Barton," Tony says in a hiss. 

"Why are you whispering?" Clint wants to know, his voice suddenly clear, "What are you up to?"

The suspicious, paranoid shit. "I'm _upgrading_. Or I would be if--" he steps outside of his lab and says, "Fuck, Barton, how am I supposed to scrap anything _now_? I have--have _glaring failures of engineering_. That hold _conversations_."

"Mm-hm."

"That--Normally, I would just replace things. Or rearrange them. Or--"

"Uh-huh."

" _Barton_."

"Welcome to the life, Tony," Clint says without sympathy, and hangs up.


	4. initiate

The rest of creation--or the universe. Or whatever--doesn't seem to be any more impressed with Tony's problems than Clint is because he's halfway through defending his breakfast choices to the coffee machine when they get called out to fight a buggy infestation that might be some kind of mad experiment let loose and might be interstellar invasion. 

"Another day at the office," Tony tells the coffee machine. It hisses steam, but he's not sure if that's meant to be commentary or just coincidence.

The quinjet's hum, when he gets onboard is more easily readable. An impatient engine whine as it waits, that then rises to a joyful scream as it leaps upwards. 

"At least someone's happy about this," he says, and Steve looks up and asks, "Huh?" face calm and distracted by information being relayed over his comm unit. Not hearing even a fraction of the jet's delight.

He goes back his communication without even noticing that it's Clint who says, "Nothing, Cap."

\-----

Everything goes pretty much to plan--in so much as they ever have a plan, anyway--until Clint falls off a roof. Or at least, based on Clint's track record, Tony's guessing that that's whats about to happen when Steve calls for locations, and no answer comes. 

"Hawkeye?" Cap's voice is a weird mix of question and restrained panic. The combination comes out sounding almost like friendly inquiry. Like he's calling Clint on the phone and isn't sure who's picked up. His voice rises a bit too much on the question to really be casual though, which is what catches Tony's attention, pulling it away from the sound of JARVIS smoothly relaying information.

There's no answer.

"Hawkeye!" Steve sounds annoyed now. If he gets any more worried he's going to start barking orders.

Tony says, "Hush," to JARVIS, so he can listen. There's silence on the comms, the team's focus shifting, waiting for a reply, and then Clint grunts. 

"Bit busy, Cap," he says, sounding breathless, and Tony finds his location, zeroing in on Clint's comm to find him up high and shooting arrows in a rapid succession that means he's firing at something too nearby.

Close quarters isn't really the best kind of quarter for arrow-shooting. Clint doesn't really have the space or time to keep up with the press of chitinous creepers. Especially since they keep coming, heedless of anything but catastrophic injury and even then, their legs keep waving, long and heavy enough to be hazard. It's like fighting cockroaches.

Clint loads an explosive arrow. There's a flash and a spray of heat signature on Tony's sensors, and then the indicator that is Clint is retreating across the roof, probably to buy enough time to load another arrow. Maybe to try to get to the even higher ground of the elevator housing.

"Hang on, Hawkeye," Tony tells him, "Don't worry. I'm almost--"

Clint fires two arrows. They go off too close. The explosion destroys two roach creatures, but it also throws Clint backwards off the roof. It's typical Clint foresight.

Tony dives, but he's still too far away. He could floor it, if it was just a matter of distance, but at that velocity the impact of the suit with Clint's minimally-armored body would likely break enough bones to turn him to _mash_. 

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," Tony yells, "Tell me we have a Hulk, or a Thor or a--"

A low garble of words comes across the comm, but Clint's not calling for rescue. He's just falling.

Picking up speed as he--as he slows down. 

It's like he's falling through some sort of ever-thickening matrix. As if the air is turning to water, then syrup, then silicone gel, maybe.

Tony comes to a hover as Clint hits the pavement, still hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but not nearly enough to kill him. He doesn't even look particularly injured. "What the _hell_ , Barton?" he snaps, as Cap's voice comes over the comm, a repeating request for status reports in the military bark that means he knows something's happened and that it might not be good.

"That used to work better," Clint says, when he gets some of his breath back, letting Tony provide cover fire while he does. Then he says, with his back turned and to what seems to be the alley in general, "Hey. Thanks," and hauls himself to his feet before dusting off.

Taking his time like he's on some kind of damn vacation.

"You want to get a move on, Hawkeye?" Tony snaps, keeping the roaches on the roof and at bay by dissuasive application of repulsor blasts. Clint checks his bow.

Then looks over and grins. It's not the self-satisfied Hawkeye smirk--the _see how I rock?_ that Tony's used to--but there is the sharing-an-in-joke wink-wink to it.

"Did you--?" Tony asks, looking up at where the roaches are milling along the roof ledge, antennae waving in confusion. 

"Yep," Clint says.

"Can I--?"

"Probably. If you ask real nice."

For that? He's willing. Even if Clint is a giant shithead. "Barton. Would you pretty please show me--"

Clint laughs. "Not _me_ , you dumbass. The," and waves his free hand at the space above them, "you know."

Tony looks up, all he sees is the roaches, waving their antennae and maybe not liking the feel of whatever Clint's done, because they stay where they are, piling up over each other in an insectine mass.

Clint sighs like he thinks Tony is the world's most hopeless case. "The _air_ , Tony."

"What are you two _talking_ about?" Steve snaps over the comms, "If you're okay, Thor needs a hand."

"Roger, Rogers," Tony says, and snags Clint before he can whip out a broomstick or fly away on his bow or something. 

\-----

At the end of the day, Tony's grateful for his suit. Not so much for the protection it offers, but because the rest of the Avengers are covered in bug goop. Steve had his cowl up, so his hair isn't plastered to his head--or, in the case of Clint, spiked up--by slime and nastiness. There's chunks caught in Natasha's and Thor's and Tony tries not to look too closely at that as he watches the team troop over to hose off or decontaminate, or whatever it is SHIELD's having them do in the biohazard van. 

By the time they re-appear, looking a little bit less like they've been half-digested, but a lot more like they've been displaced from their homes--dressed in wrong-sized clothing clearly rustled up from SHIELD personnel--he's stripped himself out of the suit and is halfway through deciding where to get lunch.

"How can you even think of food?" Natasha demands, combing fingers through her hair. Probably, she wants him to think she's grossed out by the bug pieces, but she probably just doesn't want to be seen in public dressed in a baggy SHIELD sweatshirt and with her hair wrecked by the decon wash, half-dried in the sun and frizzed into a red cloud.

"I'll lend you a scrunchie," Tony offers, clipping his briefcase shut. Despite what Steve might think, he's prepared. Had his own change of clothes stashed with the Banner emergency-pants onboard the quinjet, so that he's at least got slacks and a shirt if not a jacket and tie. 

Image to maintain and all that. Natasha looks less than impressed. "Pizza?" Tony asks her, "Korean barbaque? Falafel? No? Really no?"

\-----

Two showers later, he can still smell bug goo. No matter what Lucky says, Clint swears the stuff is still in his hair. "Are you sure, dog?" he asks, careful not to step on his untied laces as he wanders up the sidewalk. "Do you even _know_ what alien bug smells like?" 

It's still hot out, even though it's close to midnight. The sidewalk's probably still giving off heat, after baking all day in the sun. Clint wanders up to the corner and back, Lucky dutifully trailing, giving signposts and the fire hydrant a bored sniff. He's sniffed it all before, the half-hearted puffs of breath say. No dog's been through since their last circuit. Clint wanders back in the other direction.

"Sleepy," Lucky complains, ignoring his question, and yawns for emphasis. His pink tongue curls as his ears go back then twitch forwards again and then he licks his nose. A doggish gesture of disgust. He drags his feet dramatically as they reach the other corner again and Clint turns to head back. " _Inside_ ," Lucky insists with a whine, "Go to sleep."

"Fine," Clint says, "Don't be my insomnia beard,' but Lucky stays at his heel as he wanders up the sidewalk again, his wet nose bumping Clint's hand every so often. "I'll just look like a lunatic, wandering around in my pajamas alone," Clint tells him. "Without my dog excuse--"

"Bad boy," Lucky tells him, the most grievous insult of dog-human interaction. Maybe offended by being used as cover. His grumble has that high whine in it that means it's friendly though, so Clint ruffles his ears when he yawns again. 

"Sorry," Clint tells him, yawning himself, and rubs at his eyes. "Come on, then. We can go back inside and watch the ceiling. You can sleep on the couch and get dog hair everywhere."

Lucky's tail wags at the suggestion, but he walks a bit further up the street and looks back, waiting. The canine are-you-coming? "Yeah, yeah," Clint mutters and follows him back up the street. 

\-----

"You look like hell, Barton," Tony chirps, when Clint heads over to make sure he hasn't started unraveling reality to see what would happen. He's busy at his kitchen counter with a set of screwdrivers and a small machine. Cheerful for a guy who looks like he's been up for hours even though it's only maybe eight in the morning. Clint wrangles the coffee pot free of the machine and peers inside.

"Couldn't sleep," Clint says, and grabs a mug from the sink instead. Gives it a rinse. 

"You know I have cups, right?" Tony says, and points with a screwdriver,"Upper shelf."

"Sure," Clint says and doesn't bother. Tony has his Starkpad out, but he can't tell what he's doing. If he's just sorting his music library or something while he works, or if he's up to something stupid. 

"Bug trauma?" Tony asks, tactless as usual. It's probably good that Clint doesn't, but Tony goes on without waiting for an answer either way, "Since Nat ruined my team lunch plans yesterday, have a bagel. They're somewhere around." Tony scans the counter, then grabs a paper bag. Tosses it. 

Clint grabbed breakfast on his way over, but he's not opposed to more. He catches the bag and unfolds the top. Even Stark's bagels are fancy. 

"Look at this thing," Tony says, while Clint's hunting around in his fridge for jam or cream cheese or chocolate spread, "I dug it up last night." He's probably been fiddling with it since, too. Tony looks obnoxiously energetic for a guy who's probably been up longer than Clint.

"Uh-huh," Clint says, still rummaging. Tony's peanut butter is awful. It tastes like it's just ground peanuts, with a pool of oil separated out and pooling on top. His chocolate spread looks like it might be Belgian or something. The label is some kind of European anyway. The vowels have little accents over them, but the chocolate is kind of bitter. "Do you have any real food in your bizarro fridge?"

"I have bagels," Tony point out, and, "I built this robot when I was twelve." He sounds really thrilled with himself.

"I built stuff when I was twelve," Clint tells him, "What makes you so special?"

Tony starts to say something indignant, then stops and puts down his screwdriver. It makes a sharp little _plink_ noise on the stone of the counter. "Right," he says, "Right. You were already doing this--stuff."

Clint twists open a jar. It's butter. Who the hell puts butter in a jar? He sniffs it suspiciously, but it's just regular, normal butter. "Uh-huh."

"So?" Tony asks, pushing back from the counter to watch him hunt around for a knife or a spoon or whatever one was supposed to use on jar butter, "Show me this falling slow thing."

"Spell."

"Falling slow spell."

Clint pries his bagel apart along the partial cut, trying not to break the halves,"You don't already know a falling slow spell? Or a hard air spell? Or a--?"

"Would I ask if I did? And why do you keep sniffing stuff? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I can't tell if this is supposed to be marmalade."

Tony makes an impatient sound. "It's _quince_ , Barton. Air spell. Come on. Focus." 

Clint shoves the jam back in the fridge, giving up, and decides the jar butter is good enough. "What do you know?" he asks, opening drawers until he finds a butter knife. Tone isn't being much help on his cutlery hunt. 

"Stuff?" he says, evasively. 

Clint stops. Looks over. "You didn't have a--a thing?"

"I can see that they choose wizards for their eloquence. Yes, I had a _thing_. So sue me if I'm a bit behind in my reading this _one time_."

"You can't be behind in your reading," Clint says, "You don't _get_ to be behind in your reading."

"Relax, Professor Barton. I think I can catch up. I read at _at least_ a fifth grade level." 

Clint ignores the dig at his manual and says, "No. I mean, if you can't even--" and waves his knife to indicate Tony and his Starkpad and the general space space around him. "You should be dead."

Tony starts to look offended, but before he can say anything, Clint swears and stops buttering his bagel. Throws the knife into the sink, where it clangs then settles with a rattle. "Oh my god. You didn't do a thing. I thought the tesseract was your thing, but it wasn't."

"Barton? Clint, whats--?"

"God damn you, Tony," Clint tells him, "I'm going to be dragged along on your goddamn Ordeal." He's already being dragged, probably. "I _knew_ this would happen."

"You're telling me," Tony says, "that the tesseract thing wasn't enough for you? I hate to toot my own horn, but you might remember--"

Clint kind of wants to smack him, and maybe Tony realizes because he stops short of mentioning the nuke. Or maybe he just realizes that he doesn't want to talk about it. Instead he ends with, "I'm just saying. Maybe you don't think that was an ordeal, but it wasn't exactly a picnic either."

"Oh god," Clint says, and laughs. It sounds like the tree outside the grocery, dry and scrapey, "I bet this is because you're old. I'm getting dragged along to make up for how you're old and clueless."

 _Clueless_ probably hurts Tony's feelings, because he give him a long look, then picks his Starkpad up, "Well if you're supposed to help me, get helping," he says in the flat-but-snippy tone he uses when he feel under-appreciated, and taps the computer a few times, "I've got the section on air spells. Where do you want to start?"  
The little robot on his counter whirrs.

Clint decidedly doesn't take pleasure in saying, "I hope you can at least write your own name."


	5. in the air

The first non-human life Clint ever talks to--or that talks to him, really--is one of the circus tigers. It's amazing. Or it would have been if what it had said to him hadn't been, "I think there's only about two bites worth of you. Maybe three." 

It had sounded very disappointed.

\-----

Tony comes over on Tuesday morning to make fun of his empty pots and the clothes he has drying by the window because the drier in the the washroom is jammed again. Probably it's the same asshole as last time trying to force his quarter in when the tray catches instead of jiggling it back out and trying again. No matter how many notes Clint leaves about it, it's always only a few weeks later that some jackass gets it hopelessly stuck again.

It's at the forefront of his mind when Tony knocks on his door, so he jerks it open and snaps, "I called the guy. I left a note. Crabbing at me won't hurry any--Tony?"

"It's like I've been transported to the third world," Tony says, which is his usual way of showing his disapproval at the lack of an elevator in Clint's building. It's not that many floors up, but Tony is sweating under his suit which is totally his own fault. It's way too early in the day for a suit.

"We're having some technical problems," Clint says, to explain the laundry hanging in his living room, "in the basement." It's already hot anyway and even the breeze coming in through his window is hot. His stuff will be dry in no time. "Come on," he says, heading back inside and leaving Tony to close the door and trail him to the kitchen, where he leans against the counter and helps himself to coffee while Clint rummages in a low cupboard.

"Nice twigs. Is this some kind of art installation thing you're getting into? Have you been talking to Steve too much?" Tony asks, nodding at the remains of his grow-your-own potted herbs. "Pep would approve of your pots, though."

Clint grunts acknowledgement, but doesn't mention that Kate had brought them over when black plastic on the kitchen counter had started to offend her ideas of what civilized living looked like.

"Move, dog," he says, when Lucky comes over to stick his head in the cupboard, in case Clint's rustling up snacks that need sharing. 

"Sidewalk chalk?" Tony asks dubiously, when Clint re-emerges with the small plastic bucket. 

"You can pick your color," Clint offers, looking down at it, "it doesn't effect anything. Most of the time."

Lucky grumbles solemnly, padding away from the food-less cupboard and over to sniff at Tony's pant leg and then, when Tony reaches to pat him, his hands. Then he sneezes twice, emphatically and Tony pulls back and makes a face.

"Gross. Dog snot."

"Smells funny," Lucky announces, wrinkling his nose and making himself sneeze again. Tony makes a face.

"Your dog is rude, Barton."

"He's a dog. He cares a lot about smells, you know? You care a lot about," Clint glances at him. "Pinstripes," he finishes and rattles the bucket at him, holding it by the rim one handed. 

"Fine," Tony sighs, ignoring Lucky, who's sniffing suspiciously again, trying to identify where Tony's been. Clint's guessing doing weird shit in his workshop, or Lucky wouldn't be thrown. Lucky's a damn smell detective. "I'll take red."

Clint looks back in the bucket, "Don't have it. Light colors only. You can have pink or orange. That's the closest I've got."

"Blue."

"Those're Kate's."

"It's like kindergarten arts and crafts corner around here," Tony says, but at least slides out of his jacket and lays it on the counter, "Ever heard of air conditioning, Barton?"

"Ever heard of containing your inner snob? Pick a color."

"Just--Okay. Fine. Orange," Tony says, throwing his hands up like he's giving in to the stupidest request ever. It's like he has no idea that in about ten minutes it's going to be Clint's turn to keep him from plummeting to the pavement.

"Great," Clint says, and puts one of the chunky sticks in his hand, then takes one for himself, "Bring your book. Or manual. Or whatever."

Tony rolls his eyes, but puts his briefcase on the counter and undoes the catches. It's annoying that he's organized. Or at least, that he can scrape together the appearance of being organized. Even with his tie undone and his cuffs folded over a couple of times he looks businessman slick. 

It's probably because Pepper or someone dresses him. Clint might look a bit ratty now and again, but at least he can manage to pick out his own sneakers.

"And where are we going?" Tony asks, closing his briefcase again, "Downstairs to draw out a hopscotch grid?"

Clint holds up one finger to point at the roof. On a Tuesday morning, no one will be hanging out up there and if Tony fucks up, the drop might even be survivable.

\-----

Clint doesn't really _decide_ that he's _Clint Barton_ \--no Francis--and not _Clinton_. He just writes his name the way he always does, the way he writes it on his stuff, the way he did in school. 

It's probably his first stupid mistake, redacting personal information. _Clint Barton, 9_ , he scratches into the ground, and sits down in the sawdust to consider it, then looks back at his book. Address, it wants. It's a hard one, when the book is also warning him about getting things wrong, about _changing_ things, by saying they're something they aren't. By saying, intentionally or otherwise, that he wants them to be something else.

He doesn't really think about _Clint Barton_ , but he's not quite willing to call the carnival his _home_ like that's a real thing.

He misses Iowa, but writing that in is _definitely_ a lie, and the book is pretty clear about how dangerous _lying_ is. 

"Well, what the hell am I _supposed_ to do?" Clint demands, and throws his stick, then has to go stomping after it, book under his arm. Then he comes back and looks over what he's written, the flowing, loopy script he's copied from the book, carefully describing himself. 

_Clint Barton, 9_ , adds a couple more lines before he draws a circle around the whole thing and closes it with the figure eight knot the book's illustration shows. Then he takes a breath and starts reading, more careful than he's ever been, making sure to not mispronounce anything. 

\-----

"You _have_ been hanging around Steve," Tony says, a few minutes after Clint starts drawing the diagram, laying out information into a pattern, a formula maybe, naming and asking. It's complicated, and constructed of circles and ellipses. Clint used to think it looked like astronomy charts, but now it reminds him of stuff Bruce and Tony have drawn over multiple whiteboards in the lab. Tony maybe thinks it looks like a failed drawing until Clint starts adding words and symbols. He gets a lot more obnoxious with his backseat writing when it starts to look like physics. 

"How am I reading this?" Tony demands, continuing his running commentary and watching over Clint's shoulder as he spells out the words that mean the air--oxygen and droplets of water. Dust. It's hard to name things that are intangible or made up of parts. If Clint makes a mistake and ends up killing Tony, or bouncing him two hundred miles east and into the ocean it'll be his own damn fault for not shutting up.

"If you couldn't, you should be really worried right about now," Clint says, drawing out another symbol, and, "You can swim right?"

"Why? Is that going to be relevant?"

"I hope not," he says, and points to a spot he's intentionally left empty, "Write your name, and anything important. Don't step on anything."

Tony makes a face, then has to get to at least one knee in what is probably a two thousand dollar suit to do it. Clint really, really doesn't smirk. Not even when Tony gets orange chalk dust all over himself when he unthinkingly wipes his hands off on his clothes before double checking his Starkpad.

Clint gives him space to work, going to check the brick propping the roof door open. It wouldn't be the first time he's gotten himself stuck out here, but the lock is cranky, and the last thing he wants is to have Tony listen in on him begging to be let back into his own building.

When he comes back, Tony's written _Anthony Edward Stark_ with the flourish of a man who signs his name to a lot of things, and is adding his birthday and the little symbols that indicate _Earth dates_ and _solar years_. Tony's done his homework--he doesn't have to double check his letters much, and he's not screwing anything up horribly as far as Clint can tell. 

"We could have done this at the tower," Tony says, enclosing the formula that means _Anthony Edward Stark_ in a circle and figure-eighting it closed, then wipes his face as he stands. It leaves orange streaks. "I have a roof too, you know. I could have had cooling towers or fans or something set up."

"Yeah, that's what you really want when you're spelling the air. To be blowing it around," Clint says, and draws a big circle around the whole mess of Script and symbols.

\-----

Everything is very quiet when Tony reads the spell, but at the same time it's like he can hear every noise. A fly buzzing about the end of a hotdog someone's dropped on the roof, the rhythmic metallic tapping of a wire hangar against a rail--someone else as inconvenienced by the laundry machine malfunction as Clint--as a warm breeze blows through, and his own voice. Sounding somehow like it reverberates less. Like the words are falling out of his mouth into nothing, or like they're being absorbed.

And then he gets to the end of it and Clint is looking weirdly nervous and saying, "Well, that should do it," in the most anticlimactic way possible as he looks over the street. The he climbs up on the low wall that surrounds the roof top like a guard rail.

"You look like a jumper," Tony tells him, and doesn't climb up after. "You're not going to--?" and nods back at the writing and diagram on the roof, where Clint hasn't added his own name and information and hadn't read the--whatever it was. Spell. 

"No," Clint says, "I set mine up a while ago," and grins. It's the grin he has when he's about to start shit with Steve, so Tony doesn't grin back. He sort of guesses that _by awhile_ Clint means much longer ago than this morning. "My plan was to fly," Clint elaborates, and his eyes sort of narrow. Tony can't really read any of his wizardry-related expressions, "but it didn't really work out that way."

"Oh?" Tony ask, mostly dawdling. The air looks unchanged. 

Clint looks down at him, then back out, like he can see something in the empty space between this building and the one across the street. "The whole business is tricky," he says, and pauses before launching into something very like what Tony had heard on the comms. Briefer. Easier. Like doing it here is less involved. It's a bit confusing, when air moves and blows and water evaporates through it, and people inhale it. When it can't be the same air. It's not like Tony's increasingly familiar acquaintance with his coffee machine, but it sounds like it, a little.

"I thought tricky would be right up your alley," Tony says, and Clint shrugs and steps out onto nothing. 

Tony makes a grab for him out of reflex, but Clint's not going anywhere. Just hangs there looking back at him, and for several seconds Tony's brain interprets it as a cartoonish delayed reaction, his heart thumping as he waits for Clint to plummet. He has to tamp the panic down, but Clint never falls.

Instead he grins and asks, "Coming?" 

"Whoa," Tony says, and a few seconds later, "That's just. Weirder to look at than I expected," and then, "Someone's going to see you." Clint shrugs and takes another step out. All smug and fake-casual about how impressed Tony is. He shouldn't have let that _whoa_ slip.

"People don't see what they don't want to, usually," Clint says. It doesn't seem like enough to rely on, and Tony would really consider that more of the cross-your-fingers part of a plan rather the backbone of it, but he steps up onto the wall and feels his way out with his foot. 

And then he's standing above the road, with no Iron Man suit, and no hum of repulsors, and no JARVIS. With no faceplate limiting his vision. The wind isn't exactly refreshing, but he can feel it through his shirt, and on his skin and in his hair. It's strange. Very cool, but strange.

"How far can we go?" he asks, taking another step towards Clint, careful to make sure he feels solid--solid _air_ under his foot before he shifts his weight onto it.

"Mostly I use it to fix antennas and satellite dishes and stuff," Clint says, "One time to get a bird out of the furnace exhaust thing."

"So we're talking close range, then?" 

Clint makes a noncomittal noise and looks away down the street. "Not exactly," he says, and starts heading back to his own building, "You could make it bigger, if you could deal with all the," he nods back the the pattern in purple and orange chalk, "the fuss."

 _The information_ , Tony hears, and _if you can juggle the equation, the formula, the pattern, the -names-_. It's fucking beautiful. Tony can juggle information with the best of them. He can _definitely_ out juggle a nine year old Clint Barton.

"Not _fair_ ," he says, watching Clint get his feet back on something actually solid and not just temporarily convinced to be, "You've been holding out on--The _universe_ has been holding out on me."

Clint freezes for a second, weirdly, and looks back at him over his shoulder for an un-Clint-like inscrutable moment before he steps off the wall and drops back onto the roof.

"Don't start with the _not fair_ ," he says, but in a tone too dark and serious for the sentence. It sounds like an honest warning.

"I'm _kidding_ , Barton," Tony yells after him, still standing several stories above the middle of the street. 

Clint doesn't snort or do his I'm-kidding-too cover-up smirk. "It's not funny."

Tony rolls his eyes and strolls back over, climbing over the wall with slightly less grace. "The universe chooses favorites," he says, to bug Clint, "I get it."

"Shut _up_ ," Clint says, and starts scuffing out their diagram, starting with all the figure eight closures, starting at the outer circles and working his way in, careful to obliterate each one utterly before moving to the next, then removing Tony's name with the same care, moving systematically through his personal information until there's nothing left of it but the broken-open circle that had contained it and a big orange smudge. 

"Things can hear you now," Clint says, either uncharacteristically cryptic or his regular unclear self, standing in the middle of the remains of the chalk diagram, looking down at the circles and angles and symbols and the names and words that meant the air in front of his building, "and there's nothing worse than a jealous wizard."

"I didn't say I was _jealous_ , you jack--"

"It's like a fucking bullhorn," Clint goes on, "Do you _want_ to call attention?"

"Bullhorn?" Tony asks, "Whose attention is this that I'm supposed to be calling?"

Clint steps carefully out of the remains of the spell, as if it was anything now but a giant chalk doodle, before he says, "The--" and stops, before deciding on, "The one you don't want thinking you might be a good target to make an offer to."

"Oh. _That_ one," Tony says, making sure to give Clint his best unimpressed look. Clint ignores it.

" _That_ one," he says, retrieving his book and Tony's Starkpad, and kicking away the brick doorstop. Tony follows him onto the steps, and the door closes behind them with a bang and a click. The stairwell is dark and close and all the heat in the building is rising to gather in it, but Clint stops halfway down to hand the Starkpad back and say, so low it's nearly a whisper, " _That One_ likes when it's wizards that--" he makes a vague gesture, "can be convinced."

"Is this a dark side of the Force thing?" Tony whispers back, automatically matching Clint's volume, "This Darth Vader seduction deal happen a lot?"

"No," Clint says, "But that's never stopped It from trying."

\-----

The first _object_ that speaks to him is one of the carousel animals. It's a lot more surprising than being threatened by a tiger. Clint had always kind of imagined the animals of the big cat act as feline sort of persons anyway.

(Oh, don't be _afraid_ ,) the wooden zebra says, like 'afraid' is ridiculous and out of place. Clint ducks behind it. He's not supposed to be here, but at nine the carnival is new enough that he still likes to sneak onto some of the rides and steal a couple of turns.

If it's not busy. He's not stupid enough to take the spot of a paying customer, but if it's slow and he pretends to be working, the carousel operator pretends to not see him.

"I'm not scared," Clint sniffs, more bravado than lie, and the zebra laughs. There's a sense of delight in it as the carousel starts up and the now-familiar ride music kicks into a new song. Clint always wishes the ride would go a little faster. Be a little more exciting. He leans his arms over the zebra's carved saddle. It doesn't even go up and down like the horses, just draws a solid cart with fixed wheels around in circles forever. The zebra seems thrilled about it. 

"Don't you get bored?" Clint asks it, ducking as they pass the ticket booth again.

(Bored?) The zebra seems confused.

"You've been going around and around for a hundred years," Clint points out, popping his head back up to rest his chin on the saddle and absently rubs the zebra's neck like it's a real horse. The antique carousel is one of the carnival's draws even though some of the animals have been replaced with new, cheaper fiberglass.

(But it's not the same circle,) the zebra says, sounding amused, (the children are always different.)

"No they aren't," Clint says. His scoff sounds like Barney. It sounds a bit mean, and Clint's not sure he likes it.

(I've never had a wizard on board before,) the zebra returns. Clint's been on the carousel a million times, but he doesn't say so, because that was _before_ so the zebra might actually be right. Instead, he feels along a ridge of the carved mane, where the paint is worn off and wood grain shows through, rubbed smooth and shiny. (What were you trying to do,) it asks, (behind the games?)

Clint gets onto tiptoe to whisper towards the zebra's ear, still not quite tall enough to to actually whisper _into_ it. He feels silly about the spell now. "It didn't work."

(A spell always works,) the zebra says, (if you do it right,) and Clint makes a face, because what does a zebra that's gone in circles for a century know about it, anyway. The zebra must have sensed his doubt, because the next thing it says is, (Before this I was a tree, and trees remember. About lots of things.)

It should be dead, by that logic, just a chunk of tree corpse. Clint doesn't say so, but the zebra puffs anyway, a sound more equine than human. (I _was_ a tree,) it says, (and now I'm something else. _You_ were stardust and water.)

"And hamburgers," Clint adds, leaning against the zebra's side as the next song starts.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Oaths Under Duress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/646937) by [nimblermortal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimblermortal/pseuds/nimblermortal)




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